


Not a Bit Sophrosyne

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [17]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: F/M, Jealousy, Miscommunication, Relationship Problems, Sherlock's Hair, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I find it so interesting,” Tom begins, throwing himself face first onto my couch, “that we both got pictured with female friends around the same time and now we’re supposedly dating them.”</p><p>He gives off a full belly Tom Hiddleston™ laugh, which is only tinged with the slightest of the bone numbing exhaustion the man must feel. </p><p>I do not know why he keeps flying back to London between his promotional gigs. </p><p>Then again, Tom Hiddleston is mental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Bit Sophrosyne

  
OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

_I am so over my hair._

**_You’re not allowed to be over your hair. Have you seen your hair?_ **

_Shockingly, I have. It’s forever in my face because it’s so bloody long._

**_Oh, cry me a river, Cumbernickel._ **

_Cumbernickel?_

**_You’re complaints make a nickel._ **

_My words are only worth a nickel? I don’t even have a nickel. And I’m afraid I’ve yet to hear that one._

**_Well, I am me, Bennyduck._ **

_Bennyduck? Come now, really?_

**_You’re a duck. QUACK!_ **

_Oh, my. Did you forget to sleep again, Door?_

**_I’m not a door. I’m a person. Unless I’m Basil. Then I’m a dog._ **

I stare at my phone for a moment, the noises of the salon not reaching my ears, yet I cannot forget where I am due to the smell lingering in my nose. It’s actually mostly coming from my head. Dye reeks. Occasionally, I dream that my whatever color it’s naturally (some sort of shade of auburn I like to tell people) would just come in dark brown already and call it a day. 

Then, I’d always be playing blonds, and be forever covered in peroxide. At least this stuff doesn’t burn like peroxide burns. 

_I am afraid, for you, dearest._

**_Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark._ **

**_That’s what Basil just said. She’d like you to know._ **

_Basil is talking to me? What does the French Spy have to say for herself._

**_She spied you with some Russian chick you’ve failed to clue me in to._ **

_She’s just a friend._

**_Who you took to a wedding you officiated. Seriously. I know I’m gaga and completely bonkerific, but I’m you’re business partner. Ya, gotta keep me in the get know._ **

Business partner? That’s what she’s going with? 

_The get know?_

**_Yada, yada, yada. My French Spy is telling me she’s some actress who is in a play simply because she is Russia. And you’re coaching her._ **

_Well, yes. I’ve offered a few tips. And we spent most of the trip working through her lines. It’s innocent._

Yes, Benedict, tell yourself that you colossal twat. 

**_God, you’re broing._ **

What? Why is she telling me I’m broing? What the hell is broing in the first place?

**_Boring. Sorry. TYPO. Anyways, Basil is bored now and has left. What are you doing?_ **

_Getting my hair dyed._

**_You’re such a girl._ **

_Yes, I know._

**_And you are a total bore. Here I thought I could get some juicy details on your luv life and all I got is what your dear fans wish she hear so they can keep on believen’ they’ll marry you._ **

_Uh…._

“Excuse me, Mr Cumberbatch?”

I snap my head up to see the stylist, Charissa, who has been dealing with the mess on my head for long enough we’re on a first name basis. 

“Yes?” I ask, wondering why she just referred to me as _Mr Cumberbatch_. 

“Ah, got your attention,” she grins, motioning for me to lean back so she can rinse the dye out in the bowl behind me. “You’re done. Time to rinse.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, pocketing the phone. 

She grins at me. “So, texting a friend?”

She says “friend” as if she means something else completely. I want to crawl into a hole. Or break cameras. Or just smash my own head. 

Why am I such a moron?

Oh, don’t answer that. 

I’m a total twat. 

“I’m sorry. I’ve seen the photos,” she explains, snapping out a towel and rolling it to cushion my neck. She grins at me, letting me know she’s happy for me without having to state it. 

I lean back. 

“Oh, don’t be so glum,” she goes on, slapping me playfully on the shoulder. “She’s quite pretty, yes?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, your head is in the clouds,” she giggles. 

I wish my head was in the clouds. 

What the hell am I doing? How old am I? Why did I think this made sense? Did I forget I’m Benedict Cumberbatch? 

I believe I did. 

My phone begins blaring and I close my eyes tight. I blindly reach into my pocket while Charissa rinses the dye out of my hair. She is so use to rudeness, she says nothing about the fact my phone just rang—loudly. 

“So, how was the wedding?”

“Lovely,” I say, remembering how romantic and peaceful the whole thing was (even if there were paps in the trees snapping pictures while I acted like an idiot). 

(Okay, maybe I’m not an idiot. I am a perfectly healthy male. I didn’t run off and become a monk. I’ve been dating steadily (if casually) for the past two years. This isn’t anything new. Or devastating.)

(I should be a monk.)

(Why am I getting into a tizzy over this? I’ve done nothing wrong. No one is hurt or even upset.)

(Did I just think tizzy?)

(And clearly Door is upset.)

(This is why I should have become a lawyer or something else respectable. But, no, I became an actor and now I live my life under a microscope. I should have known this was going to happen when the wedding was taking place outdoors. And I know Door is addicted to Pintrest and follows my life through the various boards she follows for Sherlock or whatever she does on it. Do they even have boards on Pinterest? Or is she on Tumblr?)

(AND Door is still married. She’s separated. And lives in Chicago.)

(I don’t have time for this.)

(This being I’m not sure. Katia was clear she didn’t want me to commit to a long term relationship. I believe she used the word fun.)

(I’m perfectly capable of having fun. I’m not a total boring sod.)

(I’ve been having “fun” with women for awhile now. This isn’t new.)

(The only difference is Door.)

(Bloody hell.) 

“Uh, Mr Cumberbatch?”

I jerk, staring up at Charissa, who is staring at me like she’s worried for my sanity. 

“Yes?”

“Let’s go cut a little off that mop of yours to get you back to Sherlock,” she says, eyeing me. 

“Of course. Sorry. I’m jet lagged,” I lie. 

I am not jet lagged. I don’t know what I am, even though in the past month I’ve pretty much flown around the world. 

* * *

“I find it so interesting,” Tom begins, throwing himself face first onto my couch, “that we both got pictured with female friends around the same time and now we’re supposedly dating them.”

He gives off a full belly Tom Hiddleston™ laugh, which is only tinged with the slightest of the bone numbing exhaustion the man must feel. 

I do not know why he keeps flying back to London between his promotional gigs. 

Then again, Tom Hiddleston is mental. 

“So, I seem to have caught you out in London?”

“Sherlock begins filming in three days,” I reply. “Shouldn’t you be promoting something in America?”

Tom groans, hands flying over his face. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why’d you even come back after Comic-Con?”

“I didn’t. I went to LA,” Tom says. “Where I found out they want to shoot more scenes for _The Dark World_.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes, they announced it and are going to do it. That is why I’m in London.”

“Couldn’t they shoot the scenes in a sound stage in LA?”

Tom chuckles, pulling his hands from his face to give me a look. “The sets are in storage here. We filmed most of it in London, well, and Iceland. I adore Iceland.”

“Of course you do,” I mutter, flipping through the scene we plan to shoot on the first day of filming. 

It’s an act two scene, so I feel as if I am missing something, as I’ve yet to get all of act one. (Yes, Steven Moffat is as evil as everyone thinks. If he weren’t so bloody brilliant…)

“So, who exactly is Katia?”

“Pardon?” 

Just ignore him and he’ll fall asleep. He’s utterly exhausted. He will fall asleep.

“Katia. The woman you were photographed whilst in Spain at that wedding,” Tom clarifies, rolling over onto his side. He snakes his long arms around one of the pillows and snuggles into it. 

“A friend.”

“Who you kissed and not just a friendly pick on the cheek, darling,” Tom said, sounding sleepier.

Yes, go to sleep. Fall asleep on my couch once more for another twelve hour nap.

“Come now, Benedict,” Tom said, still groggy sounding but his eyes are sharp.

Blast.

“I’ve spent all day outside in this infernal heat in a suit and tie, give me something,” Tom begs. 

“Why are you so curious?”

“Might have further my understanding to the state of Door’s mind,” Tom explains, somehow further snuggling into the pillow. His eyes fall shut, finally letting me go from that penetrating blue gaze. 

Damn his eyes. 

“I doubt that had anything to do with her….state of mind at Comic-Con,” I say, fulling believing it. 

She didn’t find out about Katia till after she’d gotten home. 

I think.

She was obsessed with the fact she forgot my birthday for quite a bit after she remembered. I am not sure how she missed it. The entire world seemed to know I was getting another year older and the press was out in full force in Japan when I was gifted a _Star Trek_ themed birthday cake. I know Door trolls the internet. Well, Pintrest. She seems rather addicted to whatever the hell that is. I think its different than Tumblr. At least Martin insists it is.

And Martin ought to know. He and Amanda keep up with that sort of thing. It seems exhausting. Don’t know how they do it. 

“Benedict,” Tom whines, opening his eyes. “Give me a bone, old boy, please.”

I glare at him. 

“What? Did you not like my present?” he inquires innocently.

He gave me an orange purse. Not a Benedict & Door creation. I’ve no clue where he got it, but it the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s striped. And the inside is purple silk— just like Sherlock’s famous shirt. 

Actually, it looked to be made out of one of Sherlock’s shirts. 

“I searched high and low for that thing,” Tom goes on, grinning like an idiot. “Did you look inside?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

Oh, bloody hell. There was something in that thing? 

“You didn’t find it, did you?” Tom asks, yawning suddenly. 

“Just go to sleep.”

“I can’t kip on your couch. I’ve got…” Tom trails off and doesn’t bother to finish as he yawns again. 

I shake my head, standing up and going to retrieve the ugly orange thing from where I stashed it after I’d gotten back to London and found it in my collection of mail that had gathered whilst I was away. 

After digging through the thing for fifteen minutes I finally find what Tom hid in one of the inside pockets. I slowly pull out the piece of paper and stare at it. It’s filled with Tom’s handwriting and it takes me a moment to figure out what it says, as just like me, Tom’s handwriting isn’t the best. You’d think we’d have better handwriting, considering we’re both public school boys, but alas, we lack properly nice handwriting unless we try hard. 

It is easy for me to figure out what he means with all his Shakespeare and other quotes (why he must always write notes in quotes and riddles is beyond me). I put the paper in my pocket and head into the kitchen and search the cabinets (finding someone rearranged them on me again) till I finally come across a box wrapped in bright orange paper. When Tom got in here to hide it is beyond me. (Or why he must hide things in my flat for me to find…)

(Sodding bastard likely is the culprit behind my rearranged kitchen.) 

I open the box and half expect to find an old book. (Most people give me old things. Then again, I like old things.) I furrow my brow at the sight of an antique camera. I turn it over in my hands a few times before I find the tag that tells me how old it is. It’s from 1939 and it’s a Voigtländer Vito. 

This means very little to me, as I know nothing about many of the old things I own. Like the cappuccino maker that everyone seems to dislike but uses nonetheless. I know nothing about it other than I like the look of it. Mum knows the history behind it. She told me, but I wasn’t listening. 

“Where did you find this?” I call out, not expecting an answer.

“A shop,” is the response. “I know you like it. I believe it does work— if you can find film for it. The shop keeper had no film, but was instant it still worked. I told her you likely were going to put it on a shelf and admire it.”

Tom’s right, of course. 

I think I’ll add to my collection of old stuff in the guest room. 

Oh, god. I collect stuff. Old stuff. When did this happen? Oh, god, I’m turning into my mother only I have a wide variety of things and she’s got owls. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

She was almost done. Only a three more flights and she was free. 

Well, as free as she could be in the Air Force. 

“Trying to use up all your leave before you start at Vance?”

Pamela stared at the commander she’d been told to have sign her request. (Which she’d already put through the computer system, but for some unknown reason they wanted an actual paper trail. Likely so they could loose it something physical or something else that made little to no sense.) 

“No, sir.”

“Oh, come on, Fitch,” the guy said as if they spoke on a daily basis.  

She’d hardly seen him during her stay at Randolph. Due to how he was sitting, she didn’t even know his name, only that he was a colonel. 

“This request is so vague it’s like you’ve no idea where you’re going,” he went on. 

She’d put down she was going to Enid for a week, then London for the rest of her time till she had to report to Vance. What was vague about that?

“Trying to keep the paparazzi off your tail?”

“Sir?”

“Oh, don’t look so confused, Fitch,” the man went on. “We all know your boyfriend.” 

Pamela doubted they all knew Tom. They knew of him, but no one she worked with knew Tom. Only two other Air Force officers had met Tom and neither was here any longer. One was in Del Rio dying a slow death by dirt and the other was likely skipping through the redwoods in Oregon (or whatever tree grew in Oregon). 

“Well, since I like you, I’ll sign then and send it up to Vance to let them know you’re flying the coop,” the man went on, filing the request somewhere on the mess that was his desk.

“Thank you, sir,” Pamela responded. 

He waved his hand at her to leave him. She turned and exited the office. 

Two hours later, right before she was to leave for the afternoon, she got an email approving her request for leave. 

She instantly texted Tom, who was currently in LA, so he was likely awake. 

**_Oh, that’s brilliant, CD!_ **

Tom had a habit of shortening his various nicknames for her when he texted, which Pamela found a combination of adorable and odd. He referred to her as CD, DC, DL, LD, CL, and DD. 

CD made her laugh, as she always thought of compact disks. DL and LD always reminded Pamela of ‘low down’ and ‘down low’— the only reason she knew those was thanks to pilot training where the guys were always talking about keeping things on the DL, or LD. CL was the abbreviation for chlorine, DC was the capital of America, and DD always reminded Pamela of BB, which was what Basil Bea Dog was occasionally called. 

_Will you actually be in London when I get there?_

**_Of course, DD._ **

_If you say so, TH._

Pamela chuckled, as she could likely picture the look Tom would give her if he was here in person and she’d referred to him as _Thomas Hiddleston_ after he’d called her _darling dove_.

**_Where is Enid?_ **

_In OK._

**_I’m British._ **

_I know._

There was a short pause in texting while Tom figured it out for himself. 

**_O-o-o-o-o-o-k-la-a-a-a-a-homa-a-a-a-a-a-a!_ **

_Correct. I knew you were smart._

**_OK. (Meaning the agreement ‘okay,’ not the state of O-o-o-o-o-o-klaaaaaaaaahomaaaaaaa.)_ **

_Ah, thanks for clearing that up, TH._

**_*Sigh*_ **

**_I’m almost finished up here, will you be around later tonight?_ **

_Yeah. I’m about to leave work. Have to drop by HEB. Ran out of food again._

**_You are as bad as Ben at keeping yourself in foodstuffs, CL._ **

_Yes, I realize this._

**_Buy some pudding. You’ve almost completed your training._ **

_Shouldn’t I wait till I’m done to celebrate with pudding?_

**_No. You need more pudding in your life._ **

_Uh huh. Sure, TH._

**_You do!_ **

* * *

“OLD STUFF!”

Pamela held the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a moment. 

“What?” she asked as she flicked the speaker on.

“OLD STUFF!” Door shouted again. 

“What about old stuff, Door?” Pamela asked, flicking the gas on to boil a pot of water. 

“Ben likes old stuff!”

“Okay.”

Door made a frustrated noise. “I didn’t get him a birthday present!”

“Uh, Door, his birthday was like a month ago.”

“NO! I still got at least nine days till it’ll be a month late!” Door went on. “And I found something perfect! Only, I can’t remember his address.”

Pamela rolled her eyes and grabbed her phone. She flicked through it till she found Benedict’s address, which she had saved to write him a thank you note for allowing her to stay when she’d found herself stranded in London. Yeah, it felt a bit weird to write Benedict a thank you note, but it was an ingrained habit. Her mother said that getting mail would never get old and everyone liked to see their trouble was appreciated. 

Pamela was sure she was the only living soul who wrote thank you notes, but she did it out of habit and without thinking these days. (She’d even written on to Emma Hiddleston, much to her own embarrassment at having to ask Tom for Emma’s address— as then she had to explain the thank you notes. Tom pouted he’d not gotten one.) 

(He didn’t know she’s already mailed his— thanking him for taking her to the movie awards and the flight. Sending a thank you note out of the nicest stationary she could find didn’t feel like enough of a thank you for a flight from London to LA, then to San Antonio. She still kind of wanted to pay him back, even though she knew he’d never let her.) 

“You got a pen, Door?” Pamela asked. 

“Yeah. Hit me,” Door said. 

Pamela read off the address. 

“Thanks. Uh…yeah. Thanks,” Door said.

“What did you get him?”

“What my mom called a piece of junk, but I thought it was awesome. It’s a plaid suitcase.”

Pamela blinked a few times. “You got him a suitcase?”

“It’s old! And plaid! And it’s not really a suitcase. It’s like a kid’s case from the fifties. Or a fake. My mom thought it was a knock off made to look old, but what does she know? She hired another freaking intern and Mitch suggested we open a freaking boutique.”

“What?”

“His name is something weird,” Door went on, not paying attention to Pamela. “I can’t even remember his name, for crying out loud. And just like Bethany, he’s got a stud in his nose. Is that a thing with teenagers these days? I thought it was all about the gage things in the ear and stretching your earlobes out?”

“I don’t know. Mitch wants you to open an actual shop? Like in Chicago?”

“No. Lombard. I think it’s sewercide.”

Pamela closed her eyes. “Suicide, Door.”

“NO! I meant _sewer_ -cide! Death by stink!”

Pamela closed her eyes, reopening when she heard the pan lid rattle as the water boiled. She reached over, took it off, and added the pasta. 

“LOMBARD! Downtown LOMBARD! They’ve been trying to bring it back since I was a kid and it never got off the ground,” Door explained. “Things keep showing up, people get excited, then the places go under because no one goes to downtown Lombard to shop.”

“If Thomas tells them, they will,” Pamela absently said, adding a little salt to the water. 

“You did not just say that.”

“Huh?”

“Tom doesn’t have the power to save downtown Lombard,” Door insisted. “Plus, I don’t want to work in downtown Lombard!”

“Uh, okay.”

“BUT, we’re too big for the basement. How is this my life?! Seriously?” Door asked. “This is not my life. I’m not outgrowing the basement in a few months. This is INSANE.”

Pamela didn’t respond as she opened the tomato sauce jar and dumped it into a sauce pan to heat up. Door ranted for a few minutes before running out of steam. 

“This is mental. Business does not work this way,” she insisted after a moment of silence. “I mean, Dan’s family didn’t turn a profit till they’d been at it for almost five years or something! And that woman who opened her own clothes shop, well, they’re just beginning to expand and hire other people to work there!”

Pamela bit her lip, not wanting to say the obvious, but feeling she ought to.

“They didn’t have Thomas and Benedict,” Pamela said. “You opened a business with a very popular actor and another one does promotion for you all the time. They both want to see you succeed, and you are.” 

Door was silent. “So…after they’re no longer popular media darlings, I’m screwed?”

“No. You’ve got a good product. Use your popularity to establish a loyal following,” Pamela encouraged, hoping whatever she was saying made sense. “That’s how fashion labels get business? Customer loyalty, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got a good start due to what Benedict and Thomas are doing for you, use it and prove you’ve got a good product.” 

“I guess I do,” Door said quietly. “I mean…they’re better than what you can get at Target.”

Pamela wasn’t sure what to make of that, but then again, she knew next to nothing about handbags. 

“I don’t want to open a shop in the suburbs, though. I’d get more foot traffic in a major city,” Door said. “But I can’t afford a shop in Chicago.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Pamela offered. “Ask Mitch?”

Door made a noise. “He’s dead set on Lombard. I suggested Naperville, but he didn’t like that. He really wants to bring Lombard back. I don’t even know what’s there anymore.”

“Why don’t you go down there and see?”

“Fine. Bye.”

“I didn’t mean right now,” Pamela said, even though she knew Door had hung up on her. 

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

Downtown Lombard. 

The website (yes, there’s a website for downtown Lombard, or Town Centre (spelled British too)) makes it seem like it’s a happening place. I haven’t been here in years. My dad assured me that Lombard’s downtown was a hoppin’ place and is all for me opening up a shop here. (He works down here, evidently. And yeah, I did notice he no longer seemed to take the train and came home for lunch, but I didn’t really think he worked in Lombard now.) 

“So, nice, huh? Better than if he suggested Villa Park,” Dad says. 

My dad had to drive me here, as Davy took the 4Runner, my mom took her own car to do something, and my dad won’t let me drive his stupid old man car. (Not that I want to drive it. It’s like driving a tank and I drive a 4Runner. That’s saying something.) 

“I don’t know, Dad,” I moan, walking down Not Main Street. 

Main Street runs through downtown Lombard, but it’s not the main drag of the joint. Go figure?

“I think you ought to do it. We could carpool to work,” he points out. “And see, this building’s for rent! And it’s old.”

“It’s a bank. Or was a bank.”

“Charming.”

“Dad.”

“Door.”

I sigh, turning and walking further up the street. “I like that one better.”

My dad follows my finger across the street. I wait for the light and cross to the empty store front. “See, you can see the purses then. The bank— no front windows.”

A crestfallen expression appears on Dad’s face— he must have had his heart set on renting out the bank. 

“Do you really want to be next to a restaurant? Might smell.”

I sigh. “Well, there’s an open store next to the liquor store.”

He gives me a look that speaks loudly of his dislike of this idea. 

“Actually, there’s two. The one right next to the liquor store, then the one next to it that used to be a food place or something.”

“You’d have to remodel and get rid of the kitchen.”

“Yeah, this is why I don’t want to do this,” I grumble as my cell phone rings. 

I know who it is before I answer.

“He’ll just call me,” my dad quietly says, putting his hands into his pockets and heading up the street in the direction of the two stores we passed earlier. 

I fish my phone out of my pocket and sure enough, it’s Sherlock Holmes himself. 

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Just finished filming,” says the tired, deep, stone rattling voice. 

Damn him.

This is why I haven’t spoken to him since….never mind. 

“Well, you’ll be happy to know I’m looking at shops. Bona Pizza’s gone. I could take their store, they’ve got a huge window!”

I half tell this to Benedict Cumberbatch, half to my retreating father’s back. 

It is a VERY sore point to my father that Bona Pizza isn’t where it ought to be. (Or anywhere. I’m not honestly sure if they went out of business or moved. He won’t tell me and I’m afraid to ask because he’s quite sentimental about places that connect to my childhood and Bona Pizza does so in a major way.) 

(It was where we got pizza when we lived in Lombard. My dad adored the owners, who had a kid my age or something.) 

“Should that mean something to me?” Benedict Cumberbatch inquires. 

“No.”

I don’t further explain. We’re silent and my dad reaches the two vacate store fronts that are about a block away from where I’m standing. He points across the street, then crosses.

“This is nuts,” I mutter, looking both ways before I start across the street to meet him. 

“What is nuts? Opening a store after just starting out?”

“Yeah.”

“Or the fact you haven’t spoken to me in almost two weeks?”

“What do you mean?”

It’s been longer. During his promotional tour of Asia, I didn’t talk to him at all. Then he went to Spain with a tall, leggy, Russian blonde.

(The wedding was on his master schedule he sent me when I’d asked all those months ago, but it didn’t list off he’d go with a date. Who is blonde. And tall. And a former model. And now is trying to be an actress. Or something.)

(I am not jealous.)

“I like this one,” my dad announces. “How’s Ben?”

“Benedict-like.”

Dad frowns.

My father has spoken to Benedict often (and Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, but I don’t hold that against him) since Benedict landed back in the UK.  (Clearly, these British men like my dad or something, as I cannot imagine why TOM HIDDLESTON keeps calling MY DAD other than the fact he likes him. Go figure.) I haven’t answered my phone, so Benedict’s taken to calling Dad. I’ve no clue what they talk about as my dad always makes this strange noise when Benedict calls, so I hide. 

Yes, I am fifteen again. Leave me alone.

“Door,” Benedict says in a tone that WILL NOT MAKE ME DO WHAT HE WANTS.

Oops.

“Did you just hang up on him?” Dad asks, looking shocked.

“No,” I lie, shoving the phone in my pocket after muting it. “This is mental. I cannot open a shop.”

“Well, it won’t hurt to look,” Dad says. “Plus, you need more room for production. And it’d be right professional—EEK.”

Damn Benedict Cumberbatch.

Before my dad can get his own iPhone out and answer, I run away. 

Well, I walk very quickly away. Then dart down a side street and wind up at the train station. I don’t cross the tracks to get to the other side, because that’s where the park is that I had that eureka moment that left me in this mess to begin with.

Damn park.

Damn dog.

Damn ice cream.

I HATE LOMBARD.

I sit down on a bench and pout. 

It’s my fault.

No, it’s Basil’s fault, but it’s my fault for not saying anything when he was here and we had our moment. No, I just let it breeze on by and then he went off traveling around the world and hasn’t sat down long enough to catch his breath since. 

I’m a loser.

I push myself to stand, cross the tracks and head back down to the street. I head toward Main Street then hook a left and head towards where Dad parked his boat of a car. I’m going back home, I’m not opening a store in Lombard, and I am not going to speak to Benedict Cumberbatch until I am no longer jealous of his girlfriend. (Or whatever she is. I did see a story he’s “dating” and not “seriously”— whatever that means. Clearly, I’m a relic of the Victorian era or something.) 

Why am I jealous?

Oh, I don’t know. Because I’m a loser who thought I was his best friend or something delusional.

Actually, I thought he liked me. Just a wee bit. 

I think I dreamed it up, though. 

I’m not blonde, leggy, or thin. I’m not a former model, actress, or anything particularly amazing. I’m just Door. I’ve got out of control, frizzy red hair, more freckles than I know what to do with when I send any time in the sun, and I’m average weight, height, wear average size clothes and shoes. I’m totally average. So much so, I’m no longer going to use fancy words to describe anything. Just boring, old, average words.

“Door?”

“No.”

“He’s just worried.”

“Yeah, well, tell him we’re not going to open a store, so he and his checkbook are fine.”

That’s a bit harsh.

I stomp passed Dad and head for the car that’s parked in the empty parking lot behind the building where my dad works.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

She is totally pissed at me. 

I bang my head with my phone. 

It’s almost two in the morning.

I ought to be asleep.

I cannot sleep.

I hit my head with my phone again, then chuck the thing across the hotel room. Then I scream.

I shouldn’t have done that. 

There’s a knock on my door.

Bugger.

I peek through the peep hole to see Mark standing at the door, half asleep.

“Ben, open up.”

I open the door.

He blinks at me slowly before taking in my appearance. 

“What is going on?”

“I messed up.”

“Fix it.”

“Tried.”

“Have you now?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, hiding my face in my hands. 

Mark brushes passed me into the room, shutting the door, and steering me to sit on the bed. 

“Matters of the heart?”

I give him a look. 

“I take it Dorothea doesn’t handle the images of you with other women as well as Pamela Fitch seems to, hmmm?”

“Pamela would have every right to be pissed off at Tom,” I remind him. “And Tom’s not in the same situation as myself.” 

“Oh?”

“There’s no photos of Tom kissing Jane,” I grumble. “Tom is also not dating Jane.”

“You’re dating the Russian girl?”

“What is dating?” I ask, trying to sound funny, wind up sounding like an asshole. 

I am one, so it works.  

“Benedict, did it ever occur to you that Dorothea is blind to your affections?” 

I look up to find Mark studying his nails. 

“She is quite dense,” Mark offers. “I know she is still married.” I make a noise. “Sorry, separated. I know she’s separated from her husband, which is why you still believe her to be off limits, but would it hurt if you just flat out told her how you feel about her?”

My stomach knots itself into a million knots at the thought of stating it, as I’ve not even stated it to myself. 

“Or are you both complete dunderheads?” Mark drawls, looking up at me. 

“Dunderhead,” I agree, raising my hand.  

“Clearly. I do not know what is going on in your personal life, but you’re usually quite tidy and don’t cause too much ruckus. You need to figure yourself out before you end up hurting two women.”

“One.”

“Pardon?”

“Katia doesn’t want anything serious,” I mutter. “Most don’t.” 

“Oh, Ben,” Mark sighs, not calling me by my full name for the first time since he’d arrived. “Why ever did you think that would suit you?”

I frown. 

Mark doesn’t bother to explain, but requests I cease throwing things and screaming.

“I quite like this hotel,” Mark says as he opens the door. “And we’ll be back somewhere down the road.”

I nod. 

Mark quietly shuts the door, leaving me alone. 

I try to call Door, but she still doesn’t answer. I’d call her father again, but I’m afraid I’ll be tottering on being an annoyance. 

Tomorrow. I’ll deal with this tomorrow. 

* * *

I’ve spoken with Katia. She understood. It was too…out of a horrible romantic comedy I almost started laughing. 

“If that iz vere your heart iz, then follow it,” she informed me, looking at me like I was mental for fooling around with her.

I am. I’m thirty-seven years old. What am I doing acting like a uni student? (With a woman who is roughly the age of a uni student. Or around. She’s twenty-five.)

(Oh, god, she’s like ten years younger than me.)

(Shut up, Benedict.) 

I didn’t even behave this way when I was a uni student. I like stable things. I’m a relationship person. Why did I even entertain the idea I was a “dating” person? Oh, I know why— because I don’t actually have time for a relationship, yada, yada, yada. 

I’m a moron. 

Tom doesn’t have time for a relationship yet seems to be able to carry one on just fine. And he’s sickeningly happy. More so than usual. 

I have not dealt with Door, as she’s still not answering her phone. 

More than likely due to pictures of me with another woman. Not that I DID anything, we were just OUT. And I am NOT dating her in any capacity. Nor have I ever dated her. We’re friends. Have been for years. 

Though, Door can’t be too mad at me. She sent me a birthday present.

It’s a tartan suitcase that’s too small to be practical. It does go nicely with the camera Tom gave me, though. It’s almost as if they plotted together, though I know for a fact they did not. 

We start filming in London tomorrow morning. Then we’ll be done with series three. I can’t wrap my head around the fact it’ll be done. I know I’ve been working on series three since March, but it feel so much longer. 

March.

I’ve only known Door since January.

I’ve only known her for seven months. 

Bloody hell. 


End file.
